


Yin and Yang

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reconciliation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: "No, we're not done! We're nowhere near fucking done. Mickey, you were fucking made for me...""Yeah, and you threw me away!" Mickey yells over him, feeling the anger bubble over everything else. He embraces it, lets it bleed into him like new life."...And I miss you," Ian says, quietly, like a kicked dog.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 16
Kudos: 236





	Yin and Yang

Mickey feels him before he can see him; that sort of tingly static that races up his shoulders and into the baby fine hair at the base of his neck. The tickle spreads beyond that, down to his arms and following through to the tips of his fingers. His mouth goes dry. His heart speeds up. His vision blurs at the edges, but only for a moment, and he hopes against hopes that Ian doesn't feel it too. 

It's a hope that Mickey knows is useless. He can already feel the pull, like a magnet, his body begging him to be dragged somewhere to the left of his vicinity, and if he's being dragged to the left, there's no way that Ian's not being pulled to the right. No way that his hair isn't standing on end. No way his heart hasn't started pumping like crazy, too. 

Forgetting about that stupid fucking pack of Marlboro's that he'd stopped in this shitty little convenience store for, he spins on his heel and makes a b-line for the door. He cringes a little when the overhead bell tinkles and signals his exit, but fuck it, he doesn't have time to stop and think about it. 

He's almost to his truck, a rusty piece of shit two seater Ranger, small but reliable, when he feels it; a wave of longing that doesn't come from himself. He hasn't felt it in nearly five years now, didn't even know he still could, someone else's emotions. But Ian always had a way of making him feel things he didn't know he was capable of. And it's screaming at him, clawing at the back of his mind. 

And he pauses, for a moment. The feeling of needing to address it stopping his feet in their tracks until his brain shakes it away and he keeps moving. Faster, running even, when he grabs at the handle of the truck and swings the squeaky hinges open. He's almost home free, almost got his right leg onto the seat when there's a weight against the door and it's shutting just after he stops himself from getting squished. 

"Mickey," he hears, and even if he hadn't felt him, that sound is so ingrained in his mind that he could pick it out of a chorus of a million voices. 

"I gotta go," Mickey husks, keeping his eyes on his hand that's still desperately clinging to the door handle. He's so fucking close to being able to leave. He can almost taste the air away from Ian. Almost feel his skin that belongs to him and only him. But the closer Ian edges, the harsher that static amps up and soon even his legs have goosebumps. 

"Can you just- fuck, can you just wait a second?" Ian grits out, and Mickey knows it's because he's feeling Mickey too, feeling his unease and the fucking dread that's coming off of him in waves. "I hate that you're feeling like this, Mick." 

Mickey doesn't say anything, doesn't really move beyond brushing his thumbnail across his lower lip. He can feel those same lips form a dull frown and his eye brows arch just as harshly as they can manage, and really, it's a burden to keep his eyes away from Ian. But fuck. Ian's put him through enough, hasn't he? What more can he take from him? 

"You're really not even gonna look at me? You're just gonna- gonna what, pretend I'm not even here?" 

And the nerve! The fucking balls on this guy, like he has any right to ask? Like he didn't pretend that there wasn't a connection? Just washed Mickey away like the fucking cosmos hasn't ordered their pairing? 

It's fucking- it's in their dna, alright? He didn't pick Ian for himself. God, or, or whoever the fuck made that determination for him. Fucking made his sister say she needed Mickey to take care of him, made Mickey go to that store to lay the mother of all beat downs on his pasty ass, made Mickey feel Ian's fear and made Mickey need to fucking touch him. Made Ian need to touch him back. Pushed them together like waves on the shore, scraping sand against sand until finally, when Ian reached out a tentative hand and his fingers slid against the back of Mickey's hand, and the feeling soothed itself. Like the worlds best and strongest balm. And then he knew that Ian was it for him. 

And then not long, maybe a couple of years after that, after Mickey had gotten used to the sweet soothing feel of Ian's touch, he took it away. Told Mickey he didn't want him anymore. Told him that he didn't give a shit about soul mates because he couldn't be in touch with his own feelings, let alone someone else's. And that was that. And now? 

"Yeah, far as I can remember you're pretty fuckin' good at pretending I wasn't there, too. Fuckin' sucks, don't it?" 

The regret washes over Mickey like a freight train, but it's not his own. It's Ian's. Hard and vengeful and fucking awful. Even if their bond didn't allow for him to sense it, he'd be able to see it in Ian's eyes. See them hollow out and water a little at the lash line. 

"Can we just, I dunno, can we talk about it? I-I'm better now, Mick. Just let me explain." Ian's always talked with his hands, and now isn't an exception. With every gesture that brings him closer to him, Mickey can feel it; the way the tingles in his skin are begging to be soothed, and fuck, if he hadn't built up years of a hardened callous, he'd let Ian touch him. But not now. 

"Better now? Well that's great, man. That's great. I'm so fuckin' glad that all'a this time apart did you good. Let's keep it that way. I got nothin' to say to you." 

"Mickey..." it comes out almost as a whisper, something like a prayer, and the regret shifts around in his chest, changes into something more akin to sorrow, and Jesus it's too fucking much. Ian's pain mounting itself on top of Mickey's is making it a little hard to breathe. 

"Ian... you, you fuckin' broke me. You get that? You even know what you did ta me? You know what that's like? To have the one person... your fucking soulmate... tell you he doesn't love you? Wants you to pack your shit and go?" Mickey's voice comes out raw and ragged, just this side of fucking crying in a god damn parking lot, and he feels pathetic. A man like him doesn't want to deal with his own emotions, and Ian's on top of his own is like an avalanche; all too powerful. 

"No I don't. I'm really sorry that you do." 

"Sorry, he says," Mickey gripes. "Cool. We done here?" 

"No, we're not done! We're nowhere near fucking done. Mickey, you were fucking made for me..." 

"Yeah, and you threw me away!" Mickey yells over him, feeling the anger bubble over everything else. He embraces it, let's it bleed into him like new life. 

"...And I miss you," Ian says, quietly, like a kicked dog. 

"You miss me? That don't mean shit, man. If that were enough you never would'a left my ass."

Ian takes a deep breath and looks skyward, like he's gathering everything he's got to give it back to Mickey. He can feel Ian's frustration pelting against his own, and he gets madder for it. 

"No, I fucking broke up with you because I was a fucking unmedicated bi-polar nut case, Mickey! couldn't process my own god damn emotions. The way I felt- I didn't know who I even was from one day to the next. I couldn't take care of you. I couldn't even fucking take care of myself! You deserved better. I can't make it any clearer!" 

"No one asked you to, you dumb fuck! Didn't ask you to fuckin' take care of me, either!"

It's anger on anger now, growing deep in both of them. If it were anyone else standing across from Mickey, he'd deck 'em. Ian's a lucky son of a bitch.

And on top of all of that, the tingle is ramping up to a full on itch. A need to reach out and touch. His body is reacting like it's starved. And really, it is. It hasn't been fed with Ian for years, and maybe if it goes on much longer he'll actually fucking die. Who knows. 

"God, can you just,” Ian pleads as he drags his hands down his face. “Fuck it,” and his hand is leaving his side before Mickey can stop him, fingers flexed and poised to grab. And he does. He grabs Mickey's wrist and all at once the itch and the tingle stop, just vanish into thin air, replaced with pure euphoria. It's so overwhelming that after just a second or two, Mickey feels drunk with it. Feels complete and fucking happy. 

"Oh fuck, Mick," Ian sighs as his eyes roll back in his head and his shoulders go slack.

And Mickey agrees whole heartedly. Fuck, indeed. 

He slides his wrist from Ian's grip and lets his hand drip down into Ian's, lacing their fingers and increasing the surface area where they touch. His body cools down, like a fever is breaking and Ian is the medicine. It's everything he forgot that he needed, and the new emotion cascading over him is comfort, home, right, real... love. 

He can tell his eyes are brimming with overstimulation. He feels so fucking good. He's so soothed. 

"Tell me you can let this go," Ian says with closed eyes. 

"Did it before," Mickey mumbles back, but he doesn't let go. It's too good and apparently he's too much of a weak pussy to hold his ground. 

"Can we please just, I dunno, grab a bite or something? Anything. Roll one. Sneak into a movie. I don't care. Just don't make me let you go yet, Mickey." 

Mickey bites his lip in contemplation, going over the pros and cons, for which there are twice as many negatives, but what the fuck? The relief of a many years pain is a pretty fucking big pro, isn't it? 

"You gonna le..." he starts, and kicks himself when his voice cracks in a little bit of fear and a little bit of desperation. He clears his throat and tries again. "You gonna leave again, Gallagher?" 

"Don't think I could if I tried. Hurts too much." 

And boy, does Mickey ever know that. God, he fucking knows. 

"I dunno, man. Could get a dog or something I guess. But you... you have to be around still tomorrow, aight? If you can't promise me that then you need walk the fuck away from me right now. And if you ever see me again, you need to turn your ass around and head for the nearest door. Because I swear to God, Ian, you ever do this to me again and I'll beat the fuck outta you." 

Ian smiles, bright and cheery and fucking perfectly, and Mickey feels himself melting into a pathetic fucking puddle on the dirty ass ground. 

"Think you could, tough guy?" He grins, and Mickey feels a playful giddiness take over. It's not his own- it's Ian's, but he likes it anyway. 

"Oh, I fuckin' know so," he quips, and before Ian can brace himself, Mickey has him in a headlock and Ian flails and sputters for a moment before he throws him off and then pins Mickey against his own truck. 

"Fucking missed you," Ian breathes and cups at Mickey's jaw. 

"That so?" 

"Yeah." 

"Fuck ever. You gonna buy me a hot dog or what?" 

~ 

It's seven years later, and Mickey wakes up to a cool blue light coming in through the window. He's warm, and he can hear rain splattering softly against the glass. He's comfortable. Ian's arm is slung low on his waist, and when Mickey starts to wiggle around to get up, his arm tightens. 

Mickey smiles. Settles back in without any complaint. Because before when he felt awful and forgotten and decidedly unloved, now he only feels one thing; 

Whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a trope you want me to tackle? Let me know!


End file.
